


white rabbit

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Tony Stark, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Written for the prompt: post-civil war, A/B/O AU please. Tony is captured by HYDRA, who also have Bucky. They force Bucky to fuck him and do bad things to him. Steve arrives to rescue Bucky, not realising they also have Tony. Angst ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> pay attention to warnings. after this chapter, there's no more sexual violence, just angst, but be warned for what this chapter contains.

He let down his guard. He won’t let it happen again.  
   
The man – Tony calls him Grey, grey hair, grey eyes, grey skin – had told him why he was here. “We’ll get our money’s worth,” he’d said, smug, “and you know what, Tony? It’s all thanks to you. You make it easy.”  
   
Maybe Barnes is just as stupid. Maybe he’s here by choice. Maybe they said the magic words, and now it doesn’t matter either way.  
   
Barnes kicks apart his legs, brusque. Tony swallows, works up the spit to talk. “Don’t,” he manages. “Barnes – Bucky. Bucky, c’mon, you know – you know this isn’t you, don’t – “  
   
“Please, keep begging,” Grey grins. “It’s a beautiful look.”  
   
“I’m not – Barnes!” Tony yelps, because he’s inserted one, gloved finger. “You know who I am,” he says quickly, “I’m – Steve! You know Steve, your friend Steve, I’m his – I know him, he wouldn’t want you to hurt – “  
   
Brusquely, Barnes pulls on his hips. Tony is half-dragged across the rough ground, face hitting the concrete. “No,” he barks, sternly. “Do not, don’t you dare, Barnes – _Barnes – “_  
   
He kicks out, but it’s just too easy for Barnes to hold him down. He curls a hand across Tony’s throat, metal, unyielding; he pushes his fingers into his mouth with a disapproving grunt, effectively gagging him. Biting does nothing. Kicking does nothing. Barnes is fucking into him with two fingers, warm and flesh. Grey is laughing.  
   
It’s easy enough to send himself away. It means nothing. Someone putting themselves inside you, thrusting – it’s nothing. It’s probably what he deserves, anyway. This is penance. He took Barnes’ arm, and so now Barnes gets to – do this, to him.  
   
After, Grey is still laughing. He hadn’t stopped. Tony would rather he had touched himself like any normal run-of-the-mill psychotic. “I wanted him so fucked he couldn’t walk,” Grey says, “Barnes, stand him up – if he can walk, you’ll just have to do it again, harder this time. Maybe you try and fit you whole fist in there.”  
   
Tony feels –  
   
Not real. Barnes pulls him up, none too gently, and pushes him forward. The sound of gloved hands on skin, bare feet slapping on concrete. He stands; hands braced out, as if they will help him balance. His legs – feel slightly weak, is all. Coltish. He’s pinched, pushed, and with his first step stumbles, legs giving out beneath him.  
   
It's dripping between his thighs.  
   
He's sore, he realises distantly. Maybe even bleeding. He lies there, eyes drooping, tries not to –  
   
“Look at him!” Grey is saying hysterically. “The big Iron Man, would you believe it soldier? Well done, boy, you fucked him within an inch of his life. Tony, thank the man. Thank him.”  
   
Is Grey talking to him? Tony’s hands don’t feel real. He hugs his belly (hurting) and pinches his arms (numb) to see if his hands are really his, and not someone else’s.  
   
“Kiss his boots,” Grey orders. “Stark, are you listening? Barnes, go there and make the bitch lick your boots. And when he’s done, bring him here, and make him lick the floor by my feet.”  
   
Barnes hand in his hair. _Stop touching me,_ Tony thinks distantly. _I did not mean to hurt you._  
   
He’s holding his leather boot to Tony’s mouth insistently. What does he want? Is trying to kick him in the teeth? He is shaken for being slow, Barnes wordless yet cruel. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,_ Tony thinks, delirious. _He’s supposed to – break free of the command, snap Grey’s neck, help me away, that is what heroes do –_  
   
After, he is deposited at Grey’s feet. He crouches, runs a hand through Tony’s hair. “You’re shivering,” he says, like he’s a scientific oddity. “Are you cold?”  
   
He’s freezing. He’s –  
   
A hand on his chin. Fingers, delicate. A thumb on his lips. Guiding. “You’ll make it good,” Grey says confidently, “won’t you? You won’t bite. If you bite, I’ll shoot Barnes in the leg.”  
   
Tony says nothing.  
   
“You’ll make it good,” Grey asks again, “you’ll be a good boy, won’t you?”  
   
Reluctantly, Tony nods.  
   
“Show me,” Grey tells him. “Stick out your tongue. Show me you can be a good boy.”  
   
Tony does.  
   
Grey hooks one finger against his cheek, pulls, chuckles. He lets go, and Tony bounces back into place, tongue out, eyes cast down. He thinks nothing. He sends himself away.  
   
   
The pallet is hard, uncomfortable. They’ve tied his hands. There’s more.  
   
   
A smear.  
   
Red lips. Smear of red. It’s on his neck, on his chest, bright like blood. He’s bleeding, too.  
   
He doesn’t know why they kiss him. To mock him, maybe. A parody of what this should be.  
   
The laughter is so _loud._ He hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates this, his body, their hands, the pain, God, the _pain –_  
   
“Do it!” The woman screeches hysterically. “Soldier, put it in him! Do it!”  
   
“Don’t!” Tony cries out. He doesn’t know _what –_ that’s the worst bit, bracing, hands scrabbling, bound together, nails digging into floor –  
   
He tries to crawl away, as if they can’t all see him, as if he isn’t just acting on stupid desperation, panic response. Barnes grabs his ankle, pulls him back; all his effort for nothing, he’s caught in a trap.  
   
“Is he crying?” Someone asks, gleefully. “Don’t stop till he’s crying. God, this is good, this is just too rich – “  
   
He isn’t crying, but his breath is – it’s hard to breathe. _It’s just pain,_ Tony tells himself, _not even that. It’s just someone, putting something inside, it’s not – you don’t need to panic –_  
   
Still, it hurts.  
   
   
Grey fucks his fingers into his mouth, thoughtless, phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. “Yeah, that’s right. Fifty-million. Why, you think I should go higher?”  
   
The room starts to spin. Tony is lying with his head on his lap, dizzy. He stops sucking, and Grey whacks him round the side of the head, tsks with irritation. “No, I have him here right now. I got some loyalists together, I told them it was – well and what? I’m afraid he won’t be much use, I think he’s concussed.”  
   
Probably.  
   
“No, Barnes. Yes, _Barnes._ As in, Roger’s bitch. Well, his other bitch,” he says, with a cruel smirk down at Tony. “Yeah, who knows. Maybe he’ll get knocked up and you can sell it.”  
   
He sighs, and pulls down his fly. Impatiently, he taps the side of Tony’s head. “God,” he groans, “I tell you what, I am dreading having to let this go. Any word from Ross? Potts?”  
   
Tony gags. It smells hot, sticky, his stomach roils. Hold it in, hold it in, hold it in, and for fuck’s sake, don’t spit or he’ll beat you again --  
   
   
The bed is soft. It’s clean. It’s –  
   
Count to ten, down from ten. Count to ten, down from ten.  
   
The man grunts, slaps his ass. Keeps going. Tony doesn’t think. He counts the threads in the pillow. He counts the particles of dust –  
   
He finishes inside, slips out before he can knot. “Keep your ass up,” he says casually, tucking himself back into his slacks. “The next one will be here in a second, and you’re not allowed to spill a drop, understand?”  
   
Tony says nothing, because he’s not there.  
   
(The door is opening. Footsteps. Bed depressing, sound of a zipper. Sick, coiled dread in the pit of his stomach -- )  
   
   
Hands bound, legs bound. Fingers in his mouth.  
   
He gags. The paltry food they’d given him, tidbits of rich chicken, wine, scotch, threaten to make an appearance. Barnes grunts. He takes back his hand.  
   
“Did I tell you to stop?” Grey snarls. “Keep going. Choke him if you have to.”  
   
“Why?” Tony croaks. “I – why are you – “  
   
He’s muffled, gargling around two leather digits, soaked in his spittle, soaked in his fluid.  
   
He vomits.  
   
   
Hand on the back of his head, tucking him against a neck. Almost tender.  
   
There’s a sick slapping noise. The sound of whoever’s lap he’s sitting on hitting his ass, the sound of a cock pushing into a sloppy open hole. Messy brown hair, smelling like – iron and gunpowder –  
   
Barnes.  
   
His arms are hanging limply by his sides, his cheek smushed into Barnes shoulder. “Please,” he manages, a croak, a whisper. “Help me.”  
   
If Barnes hears him, the soldier certainly doesn’t. Tony entertains the thought that this isn’t brainwashing; this is a conspiracy. This is Barnes and Rogers, getting their own back somehow, punishing him for what he did. He took Barnes arm and he took Steve’s shield and so now – they’ll take from him, too.  
   
He takes Tony’s arms, holds them behind his back with his metal hand. People are talking, laughing, but not at him. Their attention has moved on. Briefly, Tony is not watched. Now is the time. If he could just –  
   
“Your name,” he tries to say, inbetween the sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts inside him. “Is Bucky Barnes. You’re from Brooklyn. You fought in the war, you were a sniper, you – “  
   
“What’s Stark muttering about?” Someone asks. “Shut him up.”  
   
“Your best friend is Steve,” Tony tries to say quickly, “he’s Captain America, he took you to Wakanda, he’s your friend, he wouldn’t want this, he wouldn’t want – “  
   
Someone is holding back his head, fixing the metal bit back between his teeth, keeping his tongue pressed down and his cheeks split wide, like a bridled pony. They throw him back against Barnes chest.  
   
_Please,_ Tony tries to will. _Stop this._ _I can’t do it, you could. You could kill them all if you wanted –_  
   
Barnes grunts. He finishes. He pushes him off his lap. Tony collapses, like a used rag, which really, is all he is now anyway.  
   
   
Grey rests the baton under his chin. Lifts his head. “And how are we feeling now, Tony?” He simpers.  
   
On his hands and knees. He has a bloody nose. Someone had knelt on him sitting on his face.  
   
“Well?” Grey prompts. “Say something. How do you feel?”  
   
Tony spits blood. “Okay,” he croaks.  
   
Grey laughs, throws back his head. “Oh my,” he breathes, wiping his eyes, “you do have spunk, don’t you?”  
   
His belly hurts. More than anything, he just wants –  
   
He curls a hand around his stomach, looks down. Feet. He can see feet, Grey’s feet, other people, strangers who have all used him in the worst, most intimate ways.  
   
Leather boots, steel-toed. He starts to shake. Not again. No, no, no –  
   
“Soldier,” Grey says casually. “Show me your hand.”  
   
Wordlessly, Barnes holds up his gloved fist. “No,” Grey corrects, “the other one. The metal one.”  
   
He acquiesces. Grey makes a big show of examining it, the knuckles, the girth.  
   
“Tony,” he says levelly, “if you fit this inside you, we’ll stop.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Please,” he whispers, spitting blood.  
   
“I promise,” Grey says patronisingly. “You’ll get some nice warm clothes and some food, and then we’ll wrap you up in a bow and deliver you straight to Ross’s door. Or maybe Rhodes, Potts. Hell, even Rogers. We’ll see who pays most.”  
   
Tony swallows pride. He acts on fear. “Please don’t,” he begs. Pathetic, and weak, but he begs. “I – I think I’m bleeding. Inside. I can’t – “  
   
“You can. Believe in yourself.” Grey shucks his chin, Barnes is moving forward.  
   
Tony tries to fight. He scrabbles back, he kicks weakly.  
   
It doesn’t matter.  
   
He manages.  
   
   
Time had lost meaning.  
   
Time has lost meaning.  
   
His arms and legs don’t work and –  
   
And his stomach is swollen and –  
   
And there’s a mess between his thighs –  
   
“You were good,” Grey grunts, assuring. He tightens the knot holding Tony’s hands bound behind his back. “You were really good. For what it’s worth – “ he gags him again with awful, painful metal bit, “you were tight while it lasted. And I don’t know a single person here who didn’t have a good time, so.”  
   
“Quickly,” someone hisses, a woman. “Are you fucking monologue-ing? Tie him up and leave him – “  
   
“ _One minute,”_ Grey snarls back. “What was I saying? Right. A good lay. Hopefully we’ve left you with a little gift of our own,” he says, tenderly stroking a hand across his belly, “but if not… well. I’ll leave you with this.”  
   
Brutally, he wrenches apart Tony’s legs. He –  
   
Puts it inside him and –  
   
It hurts and –  
   
Presses in the wrong place and –  
   
Grey twists it inside him, whatever it is, hard and unyielding. Tony – makes a noise. A whimper, maybe. He squeezes his eyes shut, counts down from ten, up to ten. Down from ten, up to ten, count all the threads in the pillow, count all the dust in the air –  
   
And then he’s gone.  
   
Grey’s gone.  
   
They’ve all gone.  
   
Tony could sob with relief. His stomach is swollen, and he’s bloody on his face, between his thighs, on places where he’s been scratched and nicked with a knife. He hurts so bad inside him. He wants – to curl up, make himself small. It’s instinct. It’s all just instinct.  
   
There’s still a thing inside him. He could try and dislodge it, but moving hurts. Let it stay there. Someone will come. They wouldn’t have sounded worried if someone wasn’t coming. Maybe – Steve will come. And he’ll wrap Tony in a blanket. He’ll stroke his hair. He’ll ask, _who did this?_ In that serious, solemn voice. Tony will tell him, and Steve won’t even care that it was Barnes, he’ll take Tony’s side. “You’re not dirty Tony,” Steve will tell him. “It’s not your fault this happened to you. I’m so sorry this happened. It doesn’t matter what they did to you, you’re still good. You’re definitely not damaged goods. Definitely not.”  
   
Selfishly, Tony imagines Steve ignores Bucky, wraps him up tight and doesn’t leave his side, not for a second. Tony – he’ll need someone to watch him while he sleeps, or else Grey could come and hurt him. Anyone could come and hurt him. He needs –  
   
Steve could. Steve has hurt him before. And Steve is alpha.  
   
Barnes hurt Tony, so Steve could too. Tony goes cold with icy, sticky dread. Barnes tells Steve about how Tony took it. About how he stuck out his tongue, and let Barnes –  
   
Steve could laugh. Tony wouldn’t be able to stop him, not without a suit. Steve would – maybe he would.  
   
Tony wouldn’t be able to take that.  
   
No, he would have to. Maybe Steve would be gentle about it. No one has been gentle with him. Maybe if Tony lets him, he’ll help him, take him away, take out the gag, undo his hands.  
   
_Stop it. You’re not thinking right._  
   
The sound of boots on floor.  
   
Tony freezes.  
   
His breath is rasping through the gag, he’s drooling and he can’t stop it. Barnes is in the room with him – have they left him? Left him so he can finish the job? So Tony won’t escape, or so – so –  
   
He takes the thing from between Tony’s legs, discards it somewhere with a ‘thunk’. Tony doesn’t – he can’t beg with the gag, not that the soldier would care. He tries to make himself small. Even in brainwashed monsters, surely, the submissive body language will penetrate _something,_ reach some kind of hindbrain mentality –  
   
His hand on the back of Tony’s head, undoing the gag.  
   
“Please,” Tony croaks, as soon as he’s able, “please don’t. C’mon I can’t – take anymore.” There are words he’s supposed to say, things he can do to try and reverse it, but he’s already tried and thinking is hard. “You’re – Bucky. You’re from… Brooklyn, Steve’s your friend, he’s my friend, he wouldn’t want – “  
   
He unties the rope binding his hands.  
   
Tony rolls onto his back, pushes his head into the pillows, bares the line of his neck. It’s major submissive body language, as much as he can manage, there’s nothing more open and vulnerable than this.  
   
Awkward, fumbling. Barnes is rubbing his hair, like a child petting a dog. “There there,” he says roughly. “It’s alright.”  
   
Tony is trembling. “What?” He rasps. What does he mean? Barnes raises his hand, and Tony brings his arms up to protect his face. _Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me –_  
   
He touches him, seemingly oblivious. “I won’t hurt you,” Barnes says, voice low and raspy. “I know you hated it. I’m sorry. I tried to make it easy as I could. You’re not the first.”  
   
_You’re not the first._ Who is he talking to? Barnes, or the soldier?  
   
“Bucky?” Tony asks, quietly, lowering his arms.  
   
Barnes frowns. “What does that mean?”  
   
Tony swallows. He’s still skating on thin ice. Barnes raises his hand again and Tony flinches, scatters away. Barnes grabs his wrist. “Do not leave,” he says, sternly. “I’m talking, why are you leaving?”  
   
Tony sobs. “Don’t touch me,” he says, “please, don’t – don’t touch me – “  
   
Barnes releases him like he’s a hot potato. “You’re scared,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t – realise.”  
   
Tony curls up. He holds the back of his head in his hands, brings his knees to his chest, sobs and sobs and sobs. It’s too much, it’s all too much, he hurts, he feels open like a wound, he’s terrified Barnes will touch him and – and he doesn’t understand. He feels filthy, more than anything, he feels filthy to the touch –  
   
“There there,” Barnes says again, stroking him like you would a dog, roughly, a parody of comfort. “It is not so bad. You are still alive, and not so badly hurt. They do worse.”  
   
_Don’t touch me,_ is all he can think. He feels like his skin shrivels every place Barnes reaches.  
   
“Do not cry,” Barnes says, trying to be gentle. “It is no use crying. It does not stop them.”  
   
So Tony wails silently, face screwed, screaming without sound into his knees. Every time he is touched is like knives, sandpaper on skin. _You screwed up fucker,_ Tony thinks, _you poor messed up, damaged man –_  
  
He suffers Barnes’ petting. He says nothing.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Barnes continues, “I do not like to do it. Now they are gone, I can tell the truth. I am alone. You are also alone. Maybe we can – “  
   
“No,” Tony bursts, trying to inch away, careful, careful. The soldier is a sick puppy and Tony just wants – _please,_ just leave him to lick his wounds –  
   
“ – get away,” Barnes finishes, slowly. “Or maybe – you are not well. Crying, and bleeding. We can wait. How long until you are healed? What is your normal healing time?”  
   
_I’m not a robot,_ Tony wants to scream. Unfortunately, he’s only too human, flesh and blood.  
   
He sobs again, pathetic. Barnes stops his stroking. He pats Tony’s dirty, filthy hair, pulls the blanket out from under him. It smells like other alphas. It smells like his humiliation. He doesn’t want it anywhere near him.  
   
Barnes wraps it around him, tucks him in like a child. “You will sleep,” he says. “When you wake up, we will be ready to leave and you will be healed.”  
   
Tony can’t stop crying. He can’t stop. _He can’t._  
   
Still, Barnes stands like he’s waiting for something. “Th-thank you,” Tony manages. “Thanks.”  
   
This settles it. He turns, and leaves Tony to fall apart in peace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heed tags

Steve finds him, lying where he fell, draped over a couch.  
   
He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Bucky, or the Soldier? He shouldn’t engage, should wait for confirmation but –  
   
But he kicks him, in the thigh. “Bucky,” he says, lowering his gun. “Wake up.”  
   
He blinks, bleary. “What?” He croaks, sitting up like a jolt. “What – the fuck – “  
   
“Who are you?”  
   
“Who am I – Bucky! Barnes! Bucky Barnes, what the _fuck – “_  
   
“You were gone,” Steve says, flatly. “You told me you could handle yourself.”  
   
Bucky wipes a hand over his face, blinking. “I can, I – Steve? What happened, man, am I – “  
   
“You were kidnapped. Or activated. Or both. Congratulations. You get to help with clear up.” He tries not to let irritation show. There’s relief there, too. The idea that at least no one seems hurt, and Bucky hasn’t been whisked away, or beheaded, or reduced and brainwashed once more.  
   
Still. They should be better. Try harder.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Bucky groans, swinging his legs off the couch and hanging his head, “I can’t even think – I don’t remember – “  
   
“I figured.” He hands him his pistol. “Cover me. We don’t know if there’s anyone left.”  
   
Steve jerks his chin and Bucky moves forward, gun braced on his wrist. “Clear,” he tells him shortly, still keeping himself alert. “This room’s clear.”  
   
“That’s all of them,” Steve says, letting down his guard. “I knew they’d run. Always do.”  
   
Bucky grunts, pokes a crumpled dress with his shoe. “Don’t remember,” he frowns. “Think – there might have been a party. Doubt I was invited.”  
   
“You never were,” Steve snorts, “you’d just invite yourself.”  
   
“Funny,” Bucky sneers, but there’s no heat behind it. “You weren’t complaining when I was your only ticket to some nice O action.”  
   
“Oh please,” Steve scoffs, “it’s not like I ever had a chance anyway.”  
   
Bucky sniffs, surreptitious. “They had an O here,” he says. “Can’t you smell it? What do you think?”  
   
“Could be one of the faithful. You know, an acolyte or something.”  
   
“Or someone unwilling,” Bucky says, darkly, because his mind always goes there. “They don’t smell happy.”  
   
It’s true. The room is tinged with a rancid, bitter _distress_ -scent, masked with _lust_ and _drunk_ and perfume. Steve heads from the main lounge into one of the adjacent rooms; this all section is – apocalypse luxury, Steve’s mind provides. The kind of place the president would hide out if the world went to shit.  
   
Steve halts. There’s a thing, in the bed. Small, smelling like omega, but so, so hurt. It scents like blood, it scents like pain, distress, fear. All awful, awful smells; Steve can’t even pick up the natural scent underneath, marred by – ugh, marred by other men’s spend.  
   
But Bucky is frozen, still standing in the doorway. “Get me that blanket,” Steve hisses, quietly, not loud enough to startle the poor thing. “Bucky. Bucky, do you hear me?”  
   
He’s shaking his head. “I didn’t want to,” he croaks.  
   
“Hey, sweetie,” Steve is saying softly, like calming a spooked animal. “We’re here to help. I’m Steve Rogers – don’t worry what you’ve heard, I’m not a criminal.”  
   
It curls tighter, rocking slightly, maybe hyperventilating. Poor little guy. God knows what they’ve done – Steve wonders if he has a family, a husband, kids, any parents who could take care of him when all this is said and done. He’ll need it. But HYDRA usually takes the outcasts, the orphans, the strays. Most likely, after the hospital he’ll be turned out onto the street.  
   
“This is my friend, Bucky. And we’re gonna get you out, don’t worry.” Steve shucks off his jacket; the boy is small, and besides, these blankets stink of distress and sex. No doubt the bastards made off with his clothes. “I’ll need to touch you,” Steve telegraphs. “I’m going to touch your shoulder and your back, so don’t be alarmed.”  
   
“Steve,” Bucky whispers, “Steve, I – I – “  
   
Gingerly, Steve is turning the omega over so he can lie more comfortably on his back. He takes in bruises on his chest, then looks at his –  
   
Tony’s hand grabs at him, grabs at his wrist where his fingers flutter over ribs. “Don’t,” he’s saying in this awful, wheezing, panicked voice. “Don’t, don’t, don’t – “  
   
“I’m not,” Steve manages, and for some reason it comes out calm, and collected. He feels distant. His mind is calculating. He doesn’t know what Tony _doesn’t_ want him to do, but he can guess, and so he slides his hand away, holds it clearly to his chest like he’s a frightened animal, even though Tony’s the one who’s – flinching, and blinking, and trying to get away –  
   
“Is it over?” He asks, eyes freakishly wide in his head, shaking like a leaf, “is it finished now? Is it over? Is it? Is it done?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve blurts, voice rough, “yeah, it’s done. ‘Course it’s done, Tony, we wouldn’t – hurt you.”  
   
“Be careful,” Tony wheezes, “don’t let him. Don’t let him don’t let him, he’ll kill you, he’ll – watch your back, watch – “ He draws his eyes from Steve to Bucky and back. “Are you with him?” He whispers.  
   
“Yeah I’m – I came for him. Jesus Tony, how the hell did you end up – “  
   
Tony's frowning, with a strange fear, or confusion. “What do you want?” He says, drawing the back of his hand over his mouth. “I don’t understand – do you wanna take a turn? Everyone else has. Why’d you – bring him?” He asks plaintively. “Why’d you – “ he lets go of Steve’s wrist, curls it against himself, ducks his gaze.  
   
Makes a noise, like reluctance, and then acceptance. “Be quick,” he says hoarsely. “If you’re gonna – please be quick. Don’t make it hurt. Don’t – don’t,” he finishes, shortly, starting to turn himself over, as if to – what, prepare himself? Make himself ready for –  
   
“No,” Steve says quickly, “that’s not – I won’t hurt you. I swear, Tony, we won’t – “  
   
“ _He_ did.” Tony talks dully, like he’s been blunted. He’s not snitching; he’s just explaining. “They all did. Don’t wanna – can’t.”  
   
Steve turns. “Bucky?”  
   
“I didn’t want to,” he says again, hoarsely. “I am so, so sorry – “  
   
He’s apologising to Steve, as if it’s Steve’s forgiveness he needs to win. “Tony,” he says, focusing back on the bed, “here, you can cover yourself.”  
   
He means to hand Tony the blanket himself, but ends up draping it across his shoulders, tenderly tucking it under his chin. “Thanks,” Tony wheezes, eyes still distant, wide. He’s shivering. Shivering, shaking, trembling under Steve’s hands.  
   
And he’s dirty. Filthy. Spend stuck in his hair, crusted on his face, neck, chest. Other fluids streaked across his bare body, and he’ll need a hospital no doubt. Where to? Would Ross grant them even brief amnesty if it meant returning Tony safe and sound? Steve doesn’t want to leave him. He doesn’t know why, he just knows he _can’t –_  
   
Instinctively, he reaches round and firmly grabs Tony by his nape; it’s a bold move, no doubt about it, but he immediately starts to settle. His breathing slows. His eyes droop. “You on my side this time?” Tony slurs. “I know you’re – you’re friends n’ all. I get that, but… don’t let him near me. I can’t. Not fair. Please just don’t let him near me.”  
   
“Sure,” Steve agrees, easily, and he’s in no place to patronise with arguments about intentionality and responsibility and culpability. “Do you think you can walk?”  
   
Tony seems to consider, and then shamefully shakes his head, like it pains him. “No can do,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat. “Legs are like – jello.”  
   
“Bucky,” Steve addresses, somehow not able to meet his eye. “Make sure the way’s clear, and that the jet’s running. You can pilot, can’t you?”  
   
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Steve – I didn’t know what I was – “  
   
“I know,” Steve says easily. “This first, that later, okay?”  
   
Bucky nods, disjointed, pretends he doesn’t notice Tony drowsily tracking him round the room, tensing whenever he moves. He mutters to himself. _Can’t do it, won’t do it. Dirty fucking freak. Gonna run. Gonna scream. I’m so dirty, need to wash, need to –_  
   
Gently, Steve starts to scoop Tony into his arms. He flinches, tries to moderate his breathing, hiding a groan behind teeth. “It’s alright,” Steve shushes him. “We’ve got you safe, and we’ll get you cleaned up.”  
   
Tony slaps him, and slaps him, and slaps him, hands flailing, legs kicking. “Leave me alone,” he screams, hoarse, twisting out of Steve’s grip. “Don’t – touch me, just – “  
   
Steve expects Tony is fast unravelling, like a ball of string. Shock, a concussion, the drugs in his system and – and the knowledge, the pain of what they did still stuck on his skin and inside him –  
   
Hysterically, awfully, Tony’s struggles dislodge something from a bed. A bright pink sex toy, which rolls and hits the floor with a simple ‘thunk’. It makes Steve feel sick, suddenly, more sick than anything else so far has. “Tony,” he tries to soothes, hands up, harmless, non-threatening. “I need to touch you, I need to carry you. Please. I know it’s painful – “  
   
Tony presses his arm around his belly. “It hurts,” he croaks.  
   
“Your stomach? I can get you something for that. You just need to let me help.” A beat; Tony is no more trusting than before. Steve tries to think back to what he was taught, how to deal with distressed Os – you bear your neck, make yourself small. Talk gently, and like you’re an authority. Tony’s all souped up and scared. If he doesn’t come willingly, they may need to take him; he says his belly hurts, and he’s left a smear of blood on the bedsheets…  
   
Steve kneels, gestures for Bucky to do the same. It puts him about head level with the mattress. “Tony,” he says, quietly. “I am going to pick you up. It might hurt, but I promise, it’s helping. We’re going to give you a whole bunk, and we won’t go near you at all. And as soon as your head’s a little clearer, we’ll fix everything up, okay? It’s all your choice. I just need to get you out of here.”  
   
Tony is still eyeing them, mistrustful. “It smells here,” Steve says, appealing to his basest, most instinctual parts. “It smells bad. Like – bad alphas, and distress. Not good, right?”  
   
A beat; Tony nods.  
   
“That’s right,” Steve says encouragingly. “It smells _bad._ We can take you, and there won’t be any smells. You’ll be _safe._ Can you trust me, Tony? Could you trust me to help you?”  
   
Tony looks at him. Then nods, once, tight.  
   
“Good. Good boy. Here,” Steve says, “you can smell my hand. I’m being honest, see? Touch my hand, I promise I won’t hurt you. Let me show you how honest I’m being.” He tips back his chin, lowers his shoulders to the bed, arm stretching across the mattress. “Take your time,” he says gently, “go on.”  
   
Cautiously, Tony shuffles. Keeping his eyes on Steve, he bows his shoulders, lower his head. Inch by inch, he lowers his nose to the palm of Steve’s hand; he sniffs.  
   
Steve twitches, and it sends Tony scattering back. When he realises Steve wasn’t really moving, he leans back down, scents him. Steve know he smells of sweat and leather. He knows he smells healthy, and normal. Reassuringly alpha. Tony seems to make up his mind and – delicately, slowly, waiting for a pain that won’t come from Steve – rests his cheek in his palm.  
   
“There,” Steve soothes, rubbing his thumb across his cheekbone. “That’s it, sweetie. I won’t hurt you.” Silently, he gestures at Bucky to go and start the jet. “Good boy,” he says warmly, watching Tony shut his eyes, curl into the touch. “Good boy. That’s it. I won’t hurt you, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”  
   
Tony is trusting him. Steve can’t imagine ever having to place this much trust in a person; he could easily whip away his hand and smack him in the face, beat him, burn him. Tony knows this, is aware of their innate physical differences, aware that he was hurt just hours ago by alphas like Steve and yet, still, he chooses to trust him.  
   
It’s gratifying, and just a little awe-inspiring.  
   
Steve keeps petting him, waiting till he feels his pulse slow beneath his fingers. “Here,” he says quietly, “c’mon. I’ll get you up.”  
   
“You’re wearing a clean shirt,” Tony mumbles, allowing Steve to drag him into his arms, like a broken puppet. “You sure?”  
   
Sure about what? Steve doesn’t ask. He shushes him, says, ‘of course I’m sure’, tucks Tony against his chin and lifts him against his chest. “Easy,” he says, ignoring the wetness that’s dripping from between Tony’s thighs, blood or worse. “You’re fine, see? Safe and sound, now.”  
   
He’s still shaking, though whether with fear, the come down, or both, Steve doesn’t know.  
   
   
"You drugged me," Tony tells him, drowsily, lying in his bunk. Any other time, it might sound accusatory.  
   
“I put a mild sedative in your milk,” Steve tells him. “It won’t make you sleep. Just – helps.”  
   
“Right,” Tony agrees. “Helps.” He’s lying on his side, blanket pulled up to his neck, hands resting curled by his face.  
   
Gingerly, Steve crouches by the bed. “How you feeling?” He asks. “You need anything?”  
   
“Nuh-uh,” Tony manages.  
   
“I know – this probably isn’t the right time to bring it up but – if you were – I’m sorry. If they – uh, finished inside you – “  
   
“They did.”  
   
“You’ll need to be tested,” Steve finishes, almost grateful he didn’t have to spell it out. “For all kinds of things. And – I was thinking, you know, if you were – I mean, if something – if – if – “  
   
“If I’m knocked up,” Tony says dully.  
   
“Right. If that’s the case – you can’t _get rid_ of it, not back home.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“So I thought – maybe I could take you to Wakanda. Your choice. Completely up to you. I just thought – maybe that would be better. And the less Ross knows…”  
   
Steve trails off. Tony thinks.  
   
“Yeah,” he croaks after a time. “Wakanda.”  
   
“You sure?”  
   
Tony nods. “If there’s something there, it needs to be gone.” He blanches, eyes closing, weary. Ropes have burned red raw lines into his wrists.  
   
“I need to look at that,” Steve tells him, quietly.  
   
Tony doesn’t protest.  
   
Gently, he takes his hand. Struggling causes cuts like these. Being so desperate that you throw yourself against rope again and again until they cut into your skin, and continue despite the pain. But Steve can’t imagine it, Tony struggling, scared, shaking. He doesn’t want to, although his mind makes him.  
   
There are sores at the edges of his mouth. They gagged him, probably. And the same ringed cuts on his ankles, around his neck. Caught and held like an animal in a trap. Steve wants to wash him, but he wouldn’t dare. He wants to try and take off the blood and spend and sweat –  
   
He scents him, then, under it all. _Bucky._ It’s not that he doubted – he didn’t. But it’s easy to distance yourself when things seem imminent. But there’s the proof, crusted onto Tony’s skin, in his hair, between his thighs. It’s too much. Steve _can’t._  
   
He drops his hand. “I can check you over,” he croaks, “but I don’t have to. You can wait till we get to the medbay. There’ll be – some nice omega nurses, and they can check you over. Would that be better?”  
   
Tony blinks, slowly. “How long?” He asks.  
   
“About – at this speed, about four hours.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, smacks his lips. “That’s good. Thanks.”  
   
He sounds grateful. Like this, he’s so trusting; he has to be. What are his options? Trust Steve, trust him not to take Bucky’s side, or to pull the rug out from under him, or to climb onto the bed and push apart his legs –  
   
“I’ll leave you,” Steve blurts, standing suddenly. “Sorry, I – not long now.”  
   
“I know it’s not his fault,” Tony says quietly. “I don’t blame him, I’m not angry. I just – can’t see him,” he finishes, lamely. “Can’t.”  
   
“Your mind knows one thing, your body another. It’s fine.”  
   
“If you say it’s fine, it’s fine.” Tony tries to smile. It doesn’t work.  
   
"You going to try and get some sleep?”  
   
“No.”  
   
Steve doesn’t tell him otherwise. “Okay. I’ll leave on the light.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “Please.”  
   
   
“How is he?” Bucky asks him, not meeting his eye, looking away. He stinks of – guilt. Guilt, guilt, guilt. It’s one thing, killing an old man and his wife, many years ago. It’s another to – torture someone, in the present, the now.  
   
"Okay. As good as can be expected.” A beat. “Did you – “  
   
“I don’t – want to talk about it,” Bucky mutters. “Not just for me. For him. He wouldn’t want – I don’t think he would want people to know.”  
   
Fair enough. Steve doubts Tony wants anyone to know what happened to him, detail by detail, piece by piece, in technicolour glory. “I need to know if you think there’s a chance someone hurt him badly. If there’s a medical emergency he might not know about.”  
   
Bucky’s cheeks flush. “He was hurt inside, I think. I remember him saying – that he hurt.”  
   
Steve shuts his eyes. This conversation is excruciating. “He bled?”  
   
Bucky nods. “Yeah,” he croaks. “I – they. I put things in him, so did they. Could just be tears, but he’s been talking about his belly hurting for the past two days or so.”  
   
“And the men who did this?”  
   
“Women too,” Bucky adds, quietly.  
   
“The people, then. They were HYDRA?”  
   
Bucky nods.  
   
“They want anything? Other than – “ _to torture him?_  
   
Bucky pauses; shakes his head. “No. To sell him, maybe, but – they heard you were coming before they got in touch.”  
   
Steve nods. He wonders if Tony’s friends even realise he’s gone. “Okay. Fine. Anything else you need to tell me?”  
   
Bucky swallows. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, “I’m really, really sorry – “  
   
“Anything else, I mean. Other than that.”  
   
A beat. Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he tells him, “nothing else.”  
   
He shouldn’t have left, Steve thinks. He wasn’t ready. There’s a sick irony in Bucky going rogue, and them and the man who had to pay for it being the very same who tried to stop him, said he wasn’t ready, said he needed help.  
   
It’s not Bucky’s fault, Steve thinks. It’s certainly not Tony’s.  
   
It might be his.  
   
   
"Well?"  
   
Steve addresses the doctor. He can see Tony through the glass, sitting on his bed, drugged up and placid. The doctor takes her time, flattening her coat against her dress. It’s infuriating. “He’ll recover.”  
   
“I know that. What’s _wrong_ with him, what’s the damage, what did they do?”  
   
“He was penetrated.” _Obviously,_ Steve thinks, but doesn’t say.  
   
“And?”  
   
“By multiple alphas. Also by – other things, it would seem. There’s tearing, and bleeding, and he was forced to take objects of an uncomfortable size. We found residue,” she continues, “the same kind found on the inside of Barnes’ glove. So it’s likely he put his hand – “  
   
“Okay that – I understand.”  
   
“As it happens, you are not his next of kin. I shouldn’t be sharing these details with you at all, but until the embassy responds…”  
   
“I get it. I won’t say a word. It’s – a secret, private, all of it.”  
   
“Good,” the doctor says shortly. “It’s too early to tell if he’s carrying. With luck, he won’t be, but he hasn’t been very lucky so far. We’ll need to keep him in for observation for at least two weeks – we should be able to tell by then. If not, he can go home. If he’s pregnant…”  
   
“He wants rid of it,” Steve assures. “He swears he does.”  
   
“Then we can do that for him. Sooner the better.”  
   
“Thank you,” Steve says gratefully, meaning it. “Thank you for this.”  
   
“It’s fine. It’s my job. I’ve seen worse,” she tells him, “although not much worse. He’s had a rough time of it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but – “ she leaves that hanging there. “Go easy on him. No fighting. Don’t – don’t try and bring up old wounds. Be as kind as you can be. He needs some kindness.”  
   
For some reason, that last bit breaks his heart. _He need some kindness._ As if what they did to him – all he wants, all he needs to make it better is a smile, a kind word, some understanding.  
   
   
He’s still pale. They’ve dressed him in a stark white gown, butterfly strip on his nose, across his eyebrow, where he was maybe struck. He’s fiddling with the flappy wristband they’ve tacked on over the bandages there. His hair is fluffy, freshly washed. Someone has shaved him – maybe to get a better look at the sores around his mouth. It makes him look different. He looks smaller.  
   
Vulnerable.  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, so not to startle him. It doesn’t work. He jerks, flinches, then settles himself.  
   
“Hi Steve,” he says, eyes wide, pupils blow. A sedative, probably. Or pain relief. He must be in pain, Steve thinks, he wouldn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know what it’s like to be – to have what happened to Tony happen to him. Can’t imagine that sort of tearing, or bruising, what that ache would feel like.  
   
“How are you feeling?” Steve asks levelly. “Can I sit?”  
   
Tony nods, gestures at the chair by his bed. “I am fine,” he says, disjointedly. “They washed my hair. They gave me this sticker – look.” He holds out his arm, displays the wristband. It’s orange. Orange means _at risk._ It means, people should watch out, because he’s –  
   
At risk. Of doing something stupid.  
   
“I see,” Steve says, as neutrally as he can. “The doctor gave you that?”  
   
“The nice one. The nicer one. The one who helped me wash my hair, the omega one. The one who smells like apples, with the blue shirt.”  
   
“She is nice,” Steve agrees. “Have you eaten?”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony hums, turning back to his wristband. “I like orange.”  
   
“So do I,’ Steve says. “It’s – a nice colour.”  
   
“I should make an orange suit,” Tony grins. “Bright and – orange. Like a tangerine.”  
   
“You might stick out a bit.”  
   
“I’ve always been – ostentatious.” Tony stresses the word, enunciates its syllables, one by one. “Ost-en-ta-tious.”  
   
“I wanted to talk to you,” Steve says, “about the plan going forward.”  
   
“Man with the plan. St-star spangled man,” Tony grins, weakly, almost frantic. “Man with plan, the star spangled man with – with the star spangled plan – “  
   
“Tony.” He speaks urgently, quietly. “They want to keep you here for two weeks. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, you’re not prisoner, but for your health the doctors want to observe you.”  
   
“A-okay, chico,” Tony says distantly, mumbling. “A-okay.”  
   
“In two weeks – they’ll do a test to see if you’re carrying.”  
   
Tony places his hands over his ears, like a child. “Can’t hear you,” he giggles, desperately. “Can’t hear you,” he laughs, eyes wild.  
   
Steve knows he can. “If you are,” he continues, “they can do something to get rid of it – “  
   
“I can’t hear you,” Tony says louder. “La-la-la. I can’t _hear_ you, I can’t _hear_ you – “  
   
“Tony, please.”  
   
“I don’t want to go home,” Tony blurts. “I want to live here forever.”  
   
“Why?” Steve asks carefully.  
   
“Because – no one knows where Wakanda is. No one can get in. I think I could do good here, I think – I’d make myself useful, you know? Ross doesn’t need to know, no one does. Just let them think I died, I don’t care.”  
   
“What about Pepper? And Rhodey?”  
   
“La-la-la,” Tony says weakly, sounding troubled. “Can’t hear you,” he mumbles, even though he’s not even pretending to cover his ears.  
   
It’s instinctual; he doesn’t think. He reaches out, gently clasps Tony’s forearm, just above his wrist, and he recoils.  
   
“No one can touch me!” He blurts. “No one can touch me unless I say so!”  
   
“Jesus, Tony, I’m sorry,” Steve begins, “I didn’t even – think. I’m sorry, look,” and he holds up his hands by his head, pushes back his chair, “I won’t go near you – “  
   
“No one can touch me!” Tony tells him, desperate. “That’s what she said! The – the apple lady with the blue shirt who washed my hair and gave me my sticker told me – “  
   
“She’s right,” Steve agrees, readily, “and I’ll always ask from now on, I swear. I promise.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Liar,” he says. He’s badly shaken, avoiding Steve’s eyes, edging away. His hand is wedged under his pillow – anyone else, it would be innocuous, but this is Tony…  
   
“What have you got there?” Steve asks, jerking his chin. “What are you hiding, under the pillow?”  
   
“Nothing,” Tony says quickly, too quickly, shuffling back to obscure it from view. Like this, sedated, drugged, he can’t lie, not well.  
   
“It’s something,” Steve points out, “or you wouldn’t be hiding it.”  
   
Tony purses his lips. “Leave me alone,” he mutters.  
   
“I’ll get a doctor if you don’t show me,” Steve says tiredly. “Do you want that?”  
   
Reluctantly, Tony shakes his head. He draws out –  
   
A scalpel. Short and sharp, but _deadly._ Steve’s heart is in his throat, blood rushing to his ears. “Where did you get that?” He asks, carefully.  
   
“Doctor’s room when they checked me,” Tony says thickly, like he’s been caught out. “Please don’t tell,” he pleads, “it’s just in case.”  
   
“Just in case?”  
   
“Just in case – someone comes,” he says, elusive but pointed; Steve knows which ‘someone’ he means.  
   
“I’m not sure you’re allowed,” Steve tells him. “Can I see it?”  
   
“No, because you’re going to take it.”  
   
“It’s dangerous under your pillow. You’ll hurt yourself.”  
   
“I _won’t._ What if he comes?” Tony says plaintively. “I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t – “  
   
“You wouldn’t be able to stop him with a scalpel,” Steve croaks, holding out his hand. “Please give it to me.”  
   
“Then I’ll kill myself,” Tony declares, “I’ll keep it and use it – “  
   
“That’s what I’m scared of. Please give it to me.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Tony – do you know what the orange sticker means?”  
   
“Orange is pretty,” he says defensively.  
   
“It means, if the doctors see you doing something – worrying, like hiding knives, or talking about – Jesus, talking about hurting yourself, they’ll give you a red sticker, and – and keep you here longer. In the hospital, I mean.”  
   
“But if he comes – “  
   
“He won’t.”  
   
“You don’t know that,” Tony accuses, “you’re just standing up for him because he’s your friend.”  
   
“He won’t come here,” Steve swears, “because – we have him under watch, and they’re talking about putting him under ice again, okay? And no one – I mean it, Tony, _no one,_ is going to make you see him, or talk to him, or anything. You’ll never see his face again if you don’t want to. This is Wakanda; if someone’s held, they’re held. They don’t get out.”  
   
Tony looks conflicted. “You won’t tell them?” He asks. “If I give it to you, you won’t tell them I took it?”  
   
“I won’t,” Steve lies.  
   
Reluctantly, easily, Tony hands it over. “Thank you,” Steve says gratefully.  
   
“You won’t tell?” Tony mumbles again. “I don’t – want to cause trouble.”  
   
“You’re not,” Steve says softly. “We’re here to help you, Tony.”  
   
Tony nods, accepting this. He fiddles with the tag on his wrist. “Thank you,” he says quietly.  
   
“You don’t need to thank me.”  
   
“Thank you for not – laughing at me,” Tony mumbles.  
   
Steve frowns, feels his heart – somehow simultaneously jackhammer in his throat and dissolve into his stomach. “What?”  
   
“I know we don’t get along, I know – we fought. But thank you for – forgetting it. I mean, for not – some guys – some alphas, they wouldn’t have forgotten. I mean – I thought maybe you’d laugh at me,” Tony explains, dulled, non-coherent with the anti-anxiety thing they’ve doped him with. “Or you’d try me. Hurt me. It could have gone differently, but – “  
   
Steve starts to protest. “Tony, I never, ever – “  
   
“ – but you didn’t. And you’re a good man, and – and I’m sorry if we fought, or whatever. I don’t know,” he finishes. “Thank you. For coming, and helping me, because you didn’t have to.”  
   
 _I didn’t come for you,_ Steve’s brain wants him to say, to tell the awful truth. _I came for Bucky. I didn’t know you were missing. I don’t know if I would have cared if I did._  
   
That’s not true. If he had known Tony was missing – truly missing, not just MIA for a couple weeks as he is prone to do – he would have cared. He would have searched. But Tony disappears all the time, and for all Steve knew, he could have even been on vacation. There hadn’t been any reports, no one had contacted him to say Tony was gone. And HYDRA only had him, what, eight days at the most. Far less than he’s been missing before.  
   
Still. Steve hates himself, regardless. He should have known. He should have paid attention. He should have stopped them as soon as he’d thought something was wrong –  
   
“Steve?” Tony asks, quietly, eyes down. He tries to draw his knees up to his chest and winces; it must hurt. Again, Steve can’t even begin to imagine what that kind of pain is like --  
   
“Yeah, Tony?”  
   
Tony swallows, shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Maybe – are you going to go?”  
   
“Go where?”  
   
“Like, anywhere. Are you leaving. Wakanda, or – or the hospital. Or – or – or here,” Tony bites out. “This room, I mean. Are you – going to leave this room?”  
   
Steve frowns. “Do you want me to?”  
   
Tony looks up at him, unable to mask his hope. “You can stay?” He asks, phrasing it as a question. “You’ll stay?”  
   
“You… want me to stay.”  
   
Tony nods. “You have the scalpel,” he explains. “The doctor said it was safe, I’m not sure. He could take out nurses, probably, he could take out anything if he was focused. Except you. Maybe you can stay, and – I’ll be safe then, too.”  
   
“You really want that?” Steve asks, slowly. “That doesn’t – upset you? The idea of me in here?”  
   
“You won’t hurt me,” Tony whispers. “If you wanted to hurt me, you could have done it already. Fucked me back at the base, or on the jet, or on the way to the hospital. Process of elimination, I… I think you’re probably safe,” Tony says, going for a smile, the same sarcastic way he used to talk to Steve, the same sarcastic smile. “Unless – I mean, unless you have somewhere else you’d rather be,” he adds, hastily.  
   
“I’ll stay,” Steve tells him, settling back into his chair. “I’ll watch out.”  
   
“Thanks. Thank you,” Tony blurts, “that’s a real relief, that’s – thank you.”  
   
“Don’t worry, Tony.”  
   
Tony tries to smile. “I’m going to go to sleep now,” he announces, lacking a filter. “When I wake up – everything will be fine,” he says, like a magic spell.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, wearily, warily. “Sure, Tony. You go to sleep. Everything will be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments! i love to know what you're thinking, and it's the number one incentive to write more!


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up.  
   
His nose is itchy. The room is dark. Frowning, he tries to raise a hand, but it feels like his body is encased in cotton, like his limbs don’t belong to him. _Cannula,_ he thinks, drowsily. He had hurt his nose. Someone had knelt on him, he remembers.  
   
He remembers. He remembers a lot, but he doesn’t know where he is. Reassuring beeps, a soft bed. A hospital? He thinks he might be safe. He thinks he might have been rescued.  
   
Oh, thank God.  
   
He twitches his toes, tries to get feeling back into his body. Painkillers, maybe, because moving hurts so very much, and there’s this awful – pressure, in his belly, like a heavy, dull pain, that sharpens when he twists. He coughs, and that hurts too. His throat is raw, because he screamed, and because he sucked so many cocks. _Bruised trachea,_ Tony has a sudden, brief memory of hearing someone say, depressing his tongue, wearing a coat. Yeah, he thinks, this is a hospital.  
   
Things come back, slowly, like they’re dipped in treacle. He remembers being in a hospital, he remembers – an examination, which was violating, humiliating, and dampened with drugs. Someone had washed his hair, someone had – cleaned him, gently, careful not to upset him. They’d noted his injuries, given him drugs, tucked him up like a child and now –  
   
Tony’s brain skips, misses a beat; a shadow, in the corner of the room, looming. Tall, dark, a metal arm.  
   
“No,” he wheezes, trying to sit up. “No, no, please.”  
   
His body is paralysed, he can’t move, it’s like having 300lb weights for arms. “Help!” He croaks, voice hoarse, but the words aren’t coming out, it’s like they’re trapped in his throat. “Someone,” he rasps, “help! Help! Help!”  
   
“Tony,” Steve soothes, and now, the light is on. The room is empty, save for him, and for Steve. It was a dream. It was a dream, and – and Steve is here?  
   
“There,” Tony whispers, “I swear I – check,” he blurts, not even remembering how Steve of all people ended up by his side, but feeling that maybe he can be trusted. “Please check. Just outside, make sure.”  
   
“It was a dream,” Steve tells him, but then he checks anyway, just to be safe. “Empty. Just some nurses. You’re fine, sweetie.”  
   
Sweetie. Sweetie? Since fucking when? Steve sits back down in a chair next to Tony’s bed and Tony recoils, feels his hair stand on edge. “What are you doing?” He demands.  
   
Steve blinks. “I’m – sitting.”  
   
“Why? Why are you – where the hell am I? Where’s – “  
   
“Wakanda. You’re in Wakanda.”  
   
“ _Wakanda?_ What the fuck am I – “ Tony pushes back the covers, swings his legs over the side of the bed and –  
   
“Don’t,” Steve bites out, holding out his hands like he wants to hold him back, but won’t. “You’re not strong enough, and you’ll tear the stitches.”  
   
“Stitches?” Tony says, weakly. His head feel – dizzy, he feels like he’s been run over by a succession of trucks. “No. No, I don’t want to – “  
   
“I found you,” Steve is saying, slowly. “You were held by HYDRA. We decided to bring you here.”  
   
“We?”  
   
“Me and you,” Steve tells him, calmly. “If there’s a chance you’re carrying, you need to be here. Understand?”  
   
Tony understands, but he doesn’t remember. He _could_ have agreed that; it makes sense. Or Steve could be lying. He can’t know. “Barnes,” Tony tells him, watching his face closely, “he was the one who did this.”  
   
“I know,” Steve says quietly.  
   
“You do?”  
   
“Tony, I – “ Steve seems to stop himself, hold back. “I was the one who found you,” he tells Tony, levelly. “Bucky was there. He admitted everything.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, frowns. There’s a headache brewing in his left temple. “Hold on,” he says, exhausted, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Wait. He admitted everything.”  
   
“Yes. _Yes._ He isn’t trying to hide anything, they have him under watch – “  
   
“He’s under watch?”  
   
“Yes! They won’t let him near you Tony, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be – “  
   
“Oh,” Tony says lightly, looking down at the sheets, fisting his hands in the cotton, feeling something scathing, scalding, bubbling up in his chest. “Well, if he’s _admitted everything,_ and if they’re watching him, that’s just – okay then, isn’t it?”  
   
“I – Tony?”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony tries to say, easily, but it comes out strained, forced. “It’s fine, because – because he’s admitted it, so. He’s such a good man. That makes everything okay, that makes – “  
   
His eyes flick upwards to where Steve is standing with a look of mild sickness on his face. Tony giggles hysterically. “That’s okay,” he continues, laughing, “it’s okay! All is forgiven, because he apologised – “  
   
“I know,” Steve says quietly. “I – all I can say is I’m sorry.”  
   
“Oh, now _you’re_ sorry?” Tony laughs. “Well fuck me, that wraps up everything, it’s – it’s fine,” he’s saying, teeth chattering, hands shaking, “I have stitches up my ass and – and my hands won’t stop – “ Tony clenches them into fists, tight, tighter, forces the muscles to yield, “ – sh-shaking. But you’re s-sorry, and Barnes is sorry – “  
   
 _I tried to tell you!_ Tony wants to scream. _I told you he wasn’t safe! I told you! I told you! I told you!_ He feels like he’s unravelling, a piece of string, a thread that’s been pulled. He can’t stay here, not with Barnes. Not while – no no no, he can’t. He can’t, he won’t.  
   
He pulls at the cannula in his nose, gags; he’s going to leave. He’s going to get out. He had a scalpel, didn’t he? He’d hidden it under his pillow –  
   
“You gave it to me,” Steve croaks, hands up by his shoulders, trying to pretend he’s not a threat. “Remember? Last night, you gave it to me.”  
   
“Get out the way,” Tony snarls, as much as he can with an abraded throat.  
   
“You shouldn’t have removed the cannula. You need it – “  
   
A nurse is standing at Steve’s shoulder. “Tony,” she says, kindly, “you’re standing. We didn’t expect to see you out of bed so early.”  
   
Tony blinks, taken off guard. “What?”  
   
“You must be in pain,” the nurse seems to remind him. “If you sit, I can get you something for it.”  
   
Her accent is soft, lilting. “I’m not in pain,” Tony snaps, lying. “I want to know why you let him in here. He’s a risk, he’s a flight-hazard, he’s friends with _him,_ he’ll let him in if it means making him happy – “  
   
“The Captain? You asked him to stay.”  
   
“I didn’t,” Tony swears, grabbing the remote control used to activate the screen stuck to the wall. “I didn’t, I _didn’t._ Stop – why are you all lying to me? What’s happening?”  
   
“Tony,” the nurses says, softly. “You’re bleeding. Please sit, so I can bring you aid.”  
   
Tony frowns, looks down. He feels it, then; the blood trickling down his legs. Three drops, three spots, pearlescent on the smooth tiled floor. “Oh,” he says, faintly, feeling suddenly weak. “Oh, that’s – that’s not good – “  
   
He feels himself start to give out, but the nurse is there, somehow. She takes his wrist – omega. She’s omega, smelling of warm and home and spices. She squeezes, lightly, and Tony relinquishes the remote.  
   
“You’re confused,” the nurse says, gently. “It’s alright, Tony. Sit down, and we’ll fix it.”  
   
“I’m not,” Tony stumbles, “I’m not confused, I’m – I’m fine, I just – “asked Steve to stay? He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything, just big gaps punctured with pain and indignity and more violation.  “No, don’t,” Tony jerks, snapping away from the nurses’ hands. She’s trying to lie him down on the bed, she says she wants to examine him. “Stop it, no!”  
   
He doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anyone’s hands touching him there anymore. Steve is gone. He’s changed his mind, he wants Steve back, he wants _someone_ he knows, anyone he can recognise, whose kind and will hold his hand. The nurse soothes him, more familiar than they are back home, stroking his hair and telling him it’ll be alright, she just needs to look. Tony bites his lip. Fists his hands in the sheets.  
   
It’s impersonal, it’s quick. The nurse snaps off her gloves, disposes them. Tony sends himself away.  
   
   
“Confusion is normal,” the nurse tells Steve, after. “We’ll have him evaluated. He won’t leave here without having spoken to a therapist.”  
   
“Is it – permanent?” Steve winces. He feels stupid for asking, but he remember things, omegas in the war who lost people, who were hurt, shocked. It changed them.  
   
“No. He’s over-tired, and whatever drugs they gave him are finding their way out of his system. It’s a – “ she seems to struggle to find the English word “ – come down. A bad come down.”  
   
“He’s angry.”  
   
“He will be,” the nurse says, irritably. “If he wants you, I’ll call you. It’s no use you hanging about here like a – bad smell. He has friends, family, people who need to be informed. Can I trust you to do this?”  
   
Steve thinks the nurse doesn’t like him very much.  
   
It rings out, the first time. Steve has to dial once, twice, three times, before Rhodey picks up. “What?” He snaps down the line. “Who is this? I’m in a meeting, how did you get this number – “  
   
“Rhodes,” Steve croaks. “Hi. Hi, it’s Steve.”  
   
A beat. “Steve?”  
   
“Yeah, I – how are you?” He interrupts, stalling for time, maybe.  
   
“How am I? I’m – good, man. Why are you calling?” He asks, suspicious. “I can’t get you anything, I don’t have any pull.”  
   
“No. No, it’s not about that, it’s – it’s about Tony.”  
   
“Tony,” Rhodey says flatly. “You know he’s missing.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and he hears himself take a deep breath, brace himself. “Rhodes -- about Tony -- ”  
   
“He’s dead,” Rhodey says, with brutal tact. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”  
   
“No. Jesus, no, Rhodes, it’s not that, it’s – we found him, he’s fine. I promise he’s safe and – he’s being looked after – “  
   
“Looked after? Is that a euphemism? Where the hell is he, where’d you take him? Fucking hell, why isn’t he here, is this some kind of ransom? What the fuck do you think – “  
   
“Rhodes,” Steve interrupts, trying to keep his voice level, “he wanted to go to Wakanda, okay? Just – let me explain – “  
   
“Who had him?”  
   
“HYDRA.”  
   
“HYDRA? What did they want?”  
   
“To – “ Steve isn’t really sure, still, “ – ransom him, we think.”  
   
“Ransom him,” Rhodes states, flatly. “The world’s brightest omega and they just wanted to sell him off – “  
   
“He was tortured,” Steve says, quietly. “He needed help, medical help. He’s okay, I promise he’s alive and well, but he needed something Wakanda – Jesus,” Steve breathes, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I’m trying my best, Rhodey, I – I want him to be okay, too.”  
   
“They tortured him,” Rhodes repeats, voice rough. “So – so what, right? He’s been tortured before. What’s wrong with him? What did they that’s so awful – “  
   
“Rhodes…”  
   
“Tell me,” he demands. “Answer me, right now.”  
   
The word is hard to say. One word, four letters, beginning with ‘R’. “He’s omega,” is all Steve can bring himself to say, weakly. “He’s omega, Rhodey. They did – what they always do.”  
   
Silence. Rhodey’s breath, heavy, harsh. “What are you telling me, Rogers?”  
   
“Jesus,” Steve mutters, covering his eyes with his palm. “They raped him, Rhodes, okay? They raped him – “  
   
Rhodey hangs up, abrupt. For a while, Steve just stands there in the hallways, head tipped back against the wall. And then, the phone rings.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Rhodey breathes. He sounds like he’s been crying. “They hurt him? They did that to him? Is he okay?”  
   
“No,” Steve says, honestly.  
   
“Can I be there? Am I allowed to come?”  
   
Rhodes risks a lot by breaking Ross’s rules. “He wouldn’t want you to.”  
   
“I don’t care,” he spits, “he needs – someone. He needs someone there, Steve, that’s not a damn – he needs a friend. Someone who smells of home, at least.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve says quietly. “I can ask. But you’ll be risking yourself, the things you’ve – worked for, together.”  
   
“Then I can send things,” Rhodes pleads, desperately. “It’s not right, for fuck’s sake Rogers. If they won’t let me come – he has a box, I know he does, it has all his comfort objects. I can send them, deliver them, he _needs_ them if he’s staying. Don’t leave him alone in a fucking hospital, with – with the antiseptic and stupid fucking alpha doctors.”  
   
“He won’t be alone,” Steve says, quietly. “I’m here. I’m going to call Nat, see if she can fly in. They were always close – “  
   
“Yeah, they were, until she disappeared. He needs real friends. People who really care about him. He should be _here,_ with me, with Pep, we’ll take care of him. You,” he spits, scathingly, “you’re not a friend, you’re not even trusted – “  
   
“Rhodey, don’t you get it? He can’t – get the help he needs back home. He – fucking hell, Rhodes. He could be carrying. They won’t let him get rid of it at home. Is that what you want? You want him to have to – “ Steve suppresses a shudder, “ – carry that baby? Give _birth_ to it? Are you mad, man?”  
   
A silence. “Right,” Rhodey is breathing, “yeah. Fuck, yeah, I know. It’s just – I want to kill them. Who was it? Can you send me their names, details? I need to know, I – he’s not _theirs,_ he’s not – “  
   
Steve hears a banging, a fist against a wall. He waits for Rhodes to get it out of his system.  
   
“Sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “Okay. I’m back. Let me get practical. His box – is there any way I can get it to him? The new ambassador, the Wakandan woman – could I give it to her? Is there not some way to pass it over?”  
   
Border control is still obscenely tight. “I’ll talk to the doctor. She seems to know what she’s about.”  
   
“Good. I need to know the names of the men who did this. What do you have to go on?”  
   
“We don’t know much. Tony won’t talk, and Bucky says there was a man who went by the name ‘Grey’. That’s it.”  
   
“Barnes says that? How does Barnes know? Was he there?”  
   
Shit.  
   
Steve swallows, braces himself, works himself up to it. This won’t be pretty, what comes next. “Yeah, Rhodey,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “He, uh. He was there.”  
   
“He help him?” Rhodey asks, roughly. “He stop them from touching him?”  
   
This time, the silence stretches. Steve can’t think what to say. He thinks, he used to be braver than this. “No,” he says, after a long while of Rhodes’ judgemental, knowing, silence. “He went rogue. Got captured. They made him hurt Tony, too.”  
   
“Hurt?” Rhodes says, stone. “No. Be specific.”  
   
“Violate,” Steve spits, hating the word. “Rape. They made him rape Tony – “  
   
Rhodes is gone. Steve doesn’t blame him. He’d probably do the same, if he could; hang up the phone, wash his hands.  
   
   
He talks to the doctor about Tony’s comfort-things. “We don’t ship a single thing over the border without permission,” she grunts, “let alone a box of old shirts.”  
   
“Please,” Steve asks. “He’s scared, and he hasn’t got anyone here. Just the box, so he knows people are thinking about him. It will help.”  
   
The doctor narrows her eyes. “You ask for a lot,” she says. “But if you think it will help…”  
   
“It will,” Steve swears.  
   
“Then I’ll see what I can do,” she tells him, begrudgingly. “Do not get your hopes up. I’m not a miracle worker.”  
   
But Steve trusts her. He thinks she’s secretly fond of Tony; she’ll do what she can.  
   
   
He asks to him, later that evening. Tony’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. “Hi Steve,” he murmurs, not looking up to greet him.  
   
“Hi,” Steve says, quietly. “They said you wanted to see me?”  
   
“Mmm.” Tony heaves a sigh, deflates, flattens against the bed. “I’m sorry, about earlier.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Steve says quickly. “I would be the same if – “ If. “You were confused.”  
   
“No, I mean I’m sorry I got agitated. I could have phrased it better. I stand by what I said.”  
   
“That’s fair.”  
   
“Thanks.”  
   
“How are you holding up?”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, smiles wanly. “Tired,” he admits. “I didn’t get much sleep. When They had me, I mean.”  
   
Steve feels his throat close up. He almost says, _I can imagine,_ then stops himself before he has the chance to act like a total fool. “I’m sorry,” he settles for.  
   
“You’re always sorry,” Tony mutters to the ceiling. Steve wonders if they’ve drugged him again.  
   
“Can I sit?” He asks.  
   
A beat. “Sure,” Tony says, after a while, cautious. His eyes track him across the room; his body is lazy, his gaze is sharp. “Stop there,” he says, while Steve shuffles in the chair. “Keep your distance.”  
   
Steve does. Tony still smells of distress – more than that, just plain _stress,_ no matter how many times they wash him. He politely doesn’t mention it. “Did the nurse patch you up?” He asks.  
   
Tony’s nose wrinkles. “Yeah,” he says, shortly.  
   
He probably doesn’t want to talk about it, stupid. It’s not like he’s broken an arm; they have to spread his legs, examine him, it’s _violating._ There’s no end to it, the injustice, the humiliation, the pain. “You wanted to talk to me?” Steve asks, softly.  
   
“Yeah. Yeah, I – “ Tony coughs, clears his bruised throat. “I wondered – what you were doing tonight.”  
   
 _Oh, the usual. Going on a date, catching a movie, going to a bar. Normal Steve Rogers stuff._ “Nothing,” Steve tells him, levelly. “I never do anything,” he adds, going for a joke.  
   
Tony doesn’t laugh. “It’s your fault,” he says. “Partly, right? You accept that. It’s at least – 15% your fault.”  
   
Steve considers. “Okay,” he says, not giving anything away. “Let’s say 15%.”  
   
“So – you owe me, I think, you…” Tony trails off.  
   
“Do you want me to stay?” Steve asks gently.  
   
Tony nods. “Can you keep the light on?” He whispers.  
   
“Sure,” Steve says, indulgently.  
   
“Thanks. Thank you.” Tony rolls onto his side, wincing. He pulls the sheet up, tucks it under his chin; he looks vulnerable, his earlier spit gone. He’s cuddled up like a child with a sickness, watching Steve warily, fearful. He fights sleep. Steve watches him, as hours drift by; eventually, he doesn’t have a choice, and it pulls him under.  
   
   
He wakes, a few hours later. “Stop, stop, stop!” He cries, sitting up, gasping for breath. “Where am I, where – “  
   
“Wakanda. Hospital. Safe.”  
   
“Safe,” Tony repeats, a whisper, a breath. “Safe, safe, I – where is he? Where are they? They aren’t – they won’t – “  
   
“Not here. I’ll stop them all. You’re safe, sweetheart. Put your head down, I’ll make sure no one comes.”  
   
Tony stares at him, blinks, but doesn’t really seem to see him. He frowns.  
   
“Go on,” Steve urges, softly. “Lie down, close your eyes, and when you wake up it’ll be morning.”  
   
Tony abruptly lies back down. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Good afternoon.”  
   
Sleep-walking. Sleep-talking. A mix of the two. Tony isn’t really awake, and he won’t remember this in the morning.  
   
   
Tony is clearer in the morning, almost himself. Steve has to leave so the nurse can examine him, wash him, help him do whatever it is he needs to do. Tony submits to this stiffly, lips pressed tight, and when Steve returns his scents smells distinctly of shame and something else, awkward and flat.  
   
“Feeling better?” Steve asks.  
   
“The sleep did me good.”  
   
Steve nods, not knowing what to say next. He pours himself a glass of water. Tony stares at the ceiling.  
   
“I keep seeing him out of the corner of my eye,” he says, frowning. He’s squinting, eyes straining. “I know he’s not here. I just think – you know, for a moment. It’s a blur.”  
   
“It’s normal,” Steve says, “it’s natural, after a traumatic – “  
   
“Yeah, I know. I’m just saying.” A beat. “How’s, uh – how is he, I guess.”  
   
“Bucky? He’s – holding up.”  
   
Tony nods. Swallows. “Has he said anything? I mean – about what happened? Told you anything, or – not that I have anything to hide, but… I just mean, have you spoken about it? Has he told you what I did? I mean – what he did,” Tony corrects, hastily. “What he did to me, and what – other people did – “  
   
“I haven’t seen him since we arrived,” Steve admits. “And he said he wouldn’t talk about it. Didn’t want anyone to know what happened. For your sake, he said.”  
   
“Well that’s – very generous,” Tony says stiffly, but not able to hide the relief on his face. “I don’t mean – I really have nothing to hide. He could tell you all of it, I don’t care,” he adds, blasé. “It’s just fucking. In fact, he should tell you, and then you can both wank over it together, or do whatever it is you do in your free time.”  
   
Tony grins, but it’s not a real smile. His cheeks are twitching, his eyes blank, it’s forced, almost a sneer. Steve doesn’t know how to respond. “Is there something you want to tell me about what happened?” Steve asks, levelly.  
   
“As if I’d tell you anything,” Tony says. “I have nothing to tell you, nothing to say. Nothing happened. If – if Barnes says anything,” he adds,  with a furtive glance at Steve, “he’s probably just lying anyway. Making things up, you know, his brain’s scrambled.”  
   
Tony doesn’t need to feel ashamed of what happened. Steve doesn’t care what they made him do. “I spoke to Rhodes,” Steve says, simply, in lieu of answer.  
   
Tony’s act falls. “You talked to Rhodey?” He croaks. “You told him? What did you tell him?”  
   
“That you’d been captured, and they’d hurt you.”  
   
“Yeah, but – but did you tell him what they _did_ to me?”  
   
“He knows, yeah.”  
   
Tony looks agitated. “You shouldn’t have told him. He’s gonna fucking freak. I didn’t want to tell him Steve, I didn’t want to tell anyone. _Fuck._ He’s going to tell Pepper, she’s going to – next thing you know, it’s on the news at 6 – “  
   
“Jesus, Tony, Rhodey wouldn’t spread it around like that!”  
   
“You don’t know! I’m not saying he would, just that – someone can overhear, they can put two and two together and now – God,” Tony is starting to fret, “I’ll be a laughing stock. Wait till the board finds out, they’ve been looking for a reason to run me out -- “  
   
“Tony. No one is going to find out.”  
   
“You don’t know,” Tony snaps, “you don’t know shit. You talk a lot of talk, but you’re a _liar_ Steve. You just pretend. Pretend to know things, or – to help people it’s a _lie._ All of you, every fucking bit of you is a lie, so don’t say things you don’t know shit about, stop _pretending,_ because I don’t believe in you any more, understand? You can’t just say, ‘it’ll be okay’, and have me nod along because I’m not one of your fucking puppets, your loyal followers who hang off your dick and listen to every word you say.”  
   
Tony is snarling, spitting. “Understand?” He wrenches, as if holding himself back, trying not to scream. “I don’t _believe_ in you anymore!”  
   
Not, ‘I don’t believe you’. He says, I don’t believe _in_ you. A different thing. A worse thing. Like Steve was once something worthy of trust, an icon, and now he’s been pushed to the dirty floor and shattered in a conquest, a saint on the dusty tiles of an old church.  
   
It hurts more than he would care to admit.  
   
“Say something,” Tony demands, “speak. What, cat got your tongue? After all that, now you can’t think of a single thing to say?” He jeers, face twisted. “No more, ‘it’ll be alrights’, and ‘aw, you’re okay Tony,’. Nothing? Not a single fucking thing?”  
   
“Breakfast,” the nurse says lightly, pushing her way through the door, carrying a tray. “Oh. Hello Captain. I can have some brought to you if you’d like to keep Tony company.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony snaps. “Steve hasn’t got a fucking word to say. The chinless wonder. Go,” Tony spits, “leave go, _go!”_  
   
“Sorry,” Steve mutters, standing, feeling like his limbs are made of rock. “I just – make sure he – sorry,” he finishes, turning, fleeing like the coward he is.  
   
   
Later. Steve is sitting on the balcony. He’s been here most of the day. The sun is starting to set.  
   
He’s wearing a hospital gown, still, tape still tacked to his arms from where he’s pulled out IVs and had injections. Steve’s first thought is something bad, he’s having some kind of breakdown, trying to escape. “Tony,” he blurts, “are you – Jesus, get away from the balcony – “  
   
“I thought I’d find you here,” Tony sighs. “You’d always sit out, back at the tower.”  
   
“I like the peace,” Steve says, cautiously.  
   
“Yeah. I know.”  
   
Steve watches for some sign that he’s about to launch himself over the edge, or spit in face. Tony just curls his hands around the balcony railing, stands quietly, lonely. He’s barefoot, and his gown doesn’t go all the way round; Steve can see his bare back and ass, striped with sharp red weals and dark bruises, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.  
   
“Tony?” Steve prompts. “Are you… okay?”  
   
Tony turns, looks over his shoulder; his eyes are round, weary, glassy like he’s been crying, or he’s just exhausted. “I wanted to apologise, for how I spoke earlier. Sometimes my imagination runs away with me. You were right to tell Rhodey what happened.”  
   
“Oh,” Steve says, mildly surprised. “Well – no problem, I guess.”  
   
“I don’t want them to know,” he continues. Tony looks small, even while standing; his shoulders hunch, his head bowed. He doesn’t elaborate who ‘them’ are. “I don’t want anyone to know. I want to forget it happened, and… I can pretend. If people don’t know.”  
   
“I understand.”  
   
“Do you?” Tony asks, smiling weakly.  
   
Cautiously, Steve moves along the stone bench, indicates that Tony’s welcome to sit. Tony stares at him mistrustfully; he hobbles, bow-legged, one of the ribbons from his smock trailing on the ground, and perches delicately on the edge of seat, as far from Steve as he can manage, wincing.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, “I do understand. The less people know, the less they look at you like – you’re pitiable. I get it.”  
   
Tony is silent, thumbing the bruises on his wrist. “Right,” he says, after a while. “I spoke to the shrink today.”  
   
“What were they like?”  
   
“Different to back home. Wakandan psychiatry is weird.”  
   
Steve laughs, easily. “What makes you say that?”  
   
“He doesn’t suggest anything at all. Just wanted me to talk. And he kinda nodded along, made notes, stuff like that. I don’t know – I don’t know if it’s helpful,” Tony mumbles.  
   
“Sometimes it’s just good to get the words out. Into the open.”  
   
“Maybe. I don’t really want to tell him anything, though. Who knows who he works for. I bet he reports everything back to T’Challa, and that’s the last thing I need – “  
   
“Tony,” Steve says gently. “You can trust the doctor.”  
   
“Oh yeah, because you would know.”  
   
“What, you don’t believe me? Or believe in me?” Steve teases.  
   
“Sorry,” Tony says again, this time a little bashful. He sees Steve’s smile and smiles back, a half-curve, shy, unsteady, but a real smile all the same. “That was harsh. For what it’s worth – I do still believe in you. I hate myself for it, but I do. I feel like an idiot who keeps falling for a pyramid scheme, but – you have that effect on people.”  
   
“You’re saying I’m a good salesman?”  
   
“No,” Tony sighs. “That would mean you were _trying_ to sell something. You’re not. You’re just – you. Effortlessly. People follow you. All the alphas, all the betas,” Tony snorts, “fuck, you should see the omegas swoon.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Omegas don’t – I don’t have that effect.”  
   
“You really do, Steve.”  
   
“I don’t.”  
   
“You’re oblivious. That’s the worst part, you’re – actually oblivious,” Tony says, disbelievingly. “I – you know, that’s why I’m angry, Steve. I want to follow you, even though you – fucking betrayed me, man. And I can’t stop thinking – if you hadn’t – if Barnes had just – “  
   
Tony squeezes his fists, spreads his fingers, repeats. He exhales slowly, eyes closed. “Tony,” Steve says gently. “It’s alright. Breathe. Take it slow.”  
   
“Sorry. Sorry, I just – “ he covers his eyes with his palms, pushes forward. “I’m panicking,” he says, remarkably calm, “I’m – I’m – give me a second.”  
   
Steve inches closer, telegraphs his movements. “Here,” he says. “Put your head down, breathe in, breathe out. Match me. I’ll tap your back for in and out, go on.”  
   
Tony watches him, eyes narrowed, and accepts the touch. He lets Steve push his head between his leg, tap his back in a rhythm. After a while, his breathing evens out, and Steve realises he’s just stroking him, light circles between his shoulderblades.  
   
He waits for Tony to say something, and sit up. When he doesn’t, Steve gently, testing, moves his hand up his back to his nape, strokes him there. Tony goes soft, and limp. He sighs. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice a burr, low and heavy. “I shouldn’t… freak out like that, I…”  
   
“It’s okay,” Steve tells him. He helps him sit up, but Tony is limp, boneless. His head rolls onto Steve’s shoulder, and Steve almost recoils; _no touching!_ His brain screams, _not like this!_  
   
But Tony’s look up at him from where he’s resting his head. _Let me,_ he seems to be saying. Steve knows he’ll ruin this if he mentions it, makes it into a bigger deal than it is. Tony doesn’t like these kinds of things to be acknowledged: he said it himself. If you don’t acknowledge a thing, does it really happen?  
   
Tony picks up his legs, curls them on the bench, nose nuzzling the spot between Steve’s neck and shoulder, his throat. “I don’t sleep well,” he says, quietly. “I think he’ll come. I don’t know. I don’t sleep.”  
   
“I’m – sorry to hear that,” Steve croaks, clearing his throat.  
   
“The nurse will be looking for me. Just – let me stay,” Tony whispers, hot in his ear. It’s innocent. That’s all this is, innocent. Tony wants to sleep, Steve can help him, please, Steve, don’t _think of him in that way,_ not after everything he’s fucking been through –  
   
He can’t help it, while Tony is practically crawling on top of him. He lets Tony tuck himself under his arm. “Five minutes,” Tony mumbles, falling under. “Just – wake me in five minutes or… don’t. I don’t mind.”  
   
Why does he trust him? Why is he doing this? Is it a battle, inside him? Weighing it up, the pros of being able to sleep against the con of Steve – being Steve. Being alpha.  
   
It’s warm. Tony’s breath is slowing fast, turning into a soft burr. Steve can pretend, at least. He can pretend he’s doing this purely for Tony, that he wants to help Tony sleep and that’s all. At the very least, he can pretend he’s trustworthy again; Tony trusts him, and Steve can help him, and that’s all that matters now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay
> 
> i'm going away for a while. i have a very, very shit journey tomorrow, and would love love love if i could have ur comments to keep me company on the way.
> 
> seriously. please. i hate driving, it makes my anxiety go MAD, so................ let's hope. i don't know how tony comes across here, but anything u can say, pls


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